FOXHOUND
by Raidersrule76
Summary: Slade learns, firsthand, just how difficult finding good help can be, no matter how highly recommended it comes. Metal Gear Solid crossover/parody


Prerequisite Author's Note:

Hello all. If you've chosen to read this delightful little romp of a story, and are not one of the three or four people who may actually be reading something I'm posting out of the delight that I'm posting something, then feel free to skip this author's note, and go down to the underlined portion. If not, hiya folks.

Life, obligations, and a cheating girlfriend have dominated my time for the past months, and fanfiction, I'm afraid, has been phased out of it. That doesn't mean I still don't get ideas, or the urge to write and post something. The captain's itch, I call it. The point is, I got this one a little while back, during one of the various hypothetical brawls that I go over in my mind--I believe it came after Samus vs. Master Chief and Indiana Jones vs. Godzilla. And since I just happen to love the three or four people who may be reading this out of the delight that I'm posting something, I figured "what the hizzle? Let's get cracking."

If you have played Metal Gear Solid, then rest assured, you'll most likely find something in here that's lulzy. If not, then I suggest you go out and buy it, as it's one of the best games ever made. If you plan to buy it and don't want (admittedly minor) spoilers, then don't read this. If you don't care, then I welcome you.

If you're sick of hearing me prattle on, then get to reading.

* * *

An oft-overlooked facet of Slade's personality--so few people stuck around after discovering that he was a supervillain to really get to know the man underneath it all--was that he had a soft spot in his wrinkled, blackened heart for interior decorating. Granted, there are only so many necessities that an evil mastermind truly requires, and he really should have preferred a more Spartan environment. Yet even still, he found the need for flashy, unnecessary gizmos.

His current guest had picked up on this right away, and didn't cease to pester him with it. "You know," he would say, his sexy British accent out in full force, "I once had an evil lair."

"Did you?" Slade would respond, feigning interest.

"Oh yes," the guest would reply, "and you know, aside from watch towers, patrolling guards and the giant mechanical killing machine that could propel a nuke at any target in the world, we kept things simple. I, uh," here he would indicate the giant, grinding gears that surrounded them, turning and interlocking with one another needlessly. "I fail to see the function of these...things."

And the debate would go on, back and forth, like some old naval battle between Lord Nelson and Napoleon whose name neither could recall immediately--Trafalgar, one would inevitably remember--resulting in neither side being right, nor wrong, but a little bit more bruised each time.

Regardless, good help is an endangered species in Jump City. No Terra meant no apprentice, no H.I.V.E. meant no cheap jailbait, and Slade Wilson, evil mastermind extraordinaire, found his options, like his hair, quickly thinning. Thus, he turned to the last remaining source of help.

Slade didn't fear the Teen Titans, by all means. But he didn't want to dirty his hands by taking them out himself. Utilizing his old army connections, he managed to get in touch with a special operations unit that, by rights, shouldn't have existed in his world at all. And canonically speaking, they wouldn't be able to fit into their own either, as they had all died at one point or another. Whether by multiple gun shots, government-engineered viruses, or simply being devoured alive by ravenous ravens, almost all of them had met their maker.

The explanation? A wizard did it, naturally.

And so it was that Slade Wilson and Liquid Snake, two former-soldiers-turned-megalomaniacs, found themselves collaborating in an insane crossover fic.

* * *

"And you're certain he's the best man for the job?" Slade asked, giving his new ally a quizzical look. He realized only after the fact that such a look was lost on Liquid. Wearing a mask made it quite impossible for people to discern his facial expressions.

Liquid smirked back at Slade. "Please. The man's over-qualified for it." Both turned their heads back to the unnecessarily large HD plasma-screen TV, silently watching the impossibly-angled interior shots of Titans' Tower that it presented. Liquid broke the silence suddenly, turning back to Slade. "And if he's not, then I have two more coffin-stuffers to send out."

Slade looked at Liquid, confused. "Only two?"

"Well," said Liquid with a shrug, "Octopus is an octopussy, and Ocelot's been a right jackass ever since he got my arm removed." At Slade's quizzical look--some facial expressions were universal, masked or no--Liquid shook his head. "Don't ask." Some days, he truly missed having a right arm.

"So...it boils down to three shots at killing the Teen Titans?" Slade shook his head, clicking his tongue disappointedly. "Some odds."

"Trust me," Liquid assured him. "Mantis is more than enough to handle them." Pressing a finger to his ear, Liquid activated his Codec radio. "Mantis," he said, "do you copy?"

There was a brief hiss of static, then a response. A Russian-accented voice sounded in Liquid's ear. "I copy, boss. Have infiltrated the tower; I've not been spotted yet."

"Excellent," said Liquid. "Take care not to--"

"What's this?" Mantis' voice held a quality of childlike wonder. "Ohh...a PlayStation. Long time no see. Let's see what they've got on the memory card..."

Liquid ground his teeth together noisily. "Mantis, be serious! This is no time for that asinine, third-wall breaking--"

"Looks like somebody likes to play Castlevania..."

"...Damn it all, Mantis..." Liquid shut off his Codec with a heavy, frustrated sigh.

Slade cleared his throat. "Fourth wall."

"Excuse me?" asked Liquid, a little more sharply than he might have intended.

"It's fourth wall," said Slade. "The phrase is 'breaking the fourth wall.'"

"Who cares?" said Liquid dismissively. "It's not like anybody's keeping track."

* * *

Peace, quiet, and a warm cup of herbal tea. Give her these three things in inexhaustible supply and Raven would be set for the rest of her life. Much as she adored her friends (some more than others; subtle shipping for the win), they could grind on her nerves now and again. However, with Starfire and Robin out on a romantic boat ride of some sort (read: investigation of a garbage scow) and Cyborg safely in some underwater bunker adjusting the T-Sub/Ship (in Raven's mind, most likely breaking whatever man-on-machine taboos that existed), Raven had the tower almost entirely to herself.

Operative word: Almost. She hadn't seen Beast Boy in hours. Usually, he'd be up in the living room, plugging away at his beloved Castlevania. Yet strangely enough, he wasn't anywhere near there. Come to think of it, Raven hadn't seen him since breakfast. He could be in the Tower still...or he could be at an undisclosed location, getting his green butt effectively handed to him.

She shrugged it off--a deus ex machina would alert her if he was in any trouble. A girl's gotta keep her Kool-Aid out of harm's way, you know, even if it's not aware that it's her Kool-Aid.

But that music...she had just now noticed it; Raven didn't recall putting on any music. It was haunting--a wordless choir, repeating the same chords. It sounded very much like a cult during Sunday mass. The image of a Davidian Sunday school brought a smile to her lips, but that damn shiver-inducing music struck it down quickly.

Raven shrugged it off. _I must have put it on earlier and forgotten about it. Seems I'm becoming forgetful in my old age,_ she thought wryly. Settling into the couch and sipping her tea, Raven opened her book--Melville's classic Moby Dick--and prepared herself for a relaxing afternoon, succeeding in blocking out the freaky music.

Yet before "Call me Ishmael," could grace her eyes, she heard a cracking, pubescent voice. "Rrrraaaaaaveeeeen..."

Raven rolled her eyes, shut the book, and set it by her tea on the coffee table. She practically felt the shards of her now-shattered hope for a nice, quiet afternoon read cut into her as they collapsed into a neat pile, along with the rest of her hopes and dreams for the day. "Yes, Beast Boy?" she asked, trying to keep herself civil.

She heard irregular footsteps, and turned her head just enough to see Beast Boy, looking very much as he did while under Mad Mod's influence, limping towards her, arms limp and dragging behind him. "Rrrrrrrraaaaaveeeeen..."

She stood, sensing danger--though it didn't take an empath to realize that hypnotized Beast Boy equated danger of some sort. "What's wrong?"

Beast Boy held his arms in front of him, smiling slightly. "Do you...like me...?"

Raven blushed, furiously. "I--what kind of question is that? Get out of here!"

"Do you...do you...like me...?" Undaunted, Beast Boy continued to plod his way over to Raven, arms still outstretched.

"You're not yourself," Raven said, trying to hold her ground. "I don't know what's wrong with you, but you're never this abrupt."

"Hurry, hurry!" He began to pick up his speed, crossing the distance between himself and Raven at an alarming rate. The wordless choir in the background began to wail louder. The absurdity of the situation made Raven's skin crawl. "Make love to me Raven! Make love to me!"

Despite her fervent, oft-exaggerated (but still present; overt shipping for the win) crush on him, Raven was deeply put-off by Beast Boy's new approach to wooing her. "Knock it off," she snapped, "last warning!"

"I waaaant yooouuu..." He reached the couch, fell over it, and continued to crawl, in a disturbing gait that would freak the hell out of Samara, towards his quarry. "Foreeeveerrrr...!"

Ka-shwack!

Beast Boy fell, unconscious, off the couch. The music grew louder still; Raven was suddenly positive that she hadn't put it on. She felt a presence--a man, full of rage, self-hatred, contempt for all living things, yet one who was greatly amused. "I know you're there," she called out to the empty room. "Show yourself!"

_"You know..."_

The voice seemed to come from all around her; it had no definite source. Whoever was speaking had clearly mastered the art of intimidation. _"You know, it's really damn awkward to be saying those things..."_

She saw the outline of a man in front of her--floating about a foot off the ground, arms spread wide to his sides. _"'Make love to me Raven, make love to me!'" _he said, mimicking Beast Boy's high-pitched tone. His Russian accent amplified the humor in the impersonation, yet also made it deeply disturbing._ "Seriously. Really damn awkward for me, of all people, to be saying that."_

"Show yourself!" Raven ordered, hoping to Jesus/Vishnu/Hellgod that her voice had some commanding presence in the face of this insane, implausible attack.

By the grace of God, he did, and materialized fully. Raven took in the features of her assailant, severely put-off by his appearance. He was dressed like a bondage slave of some sort--a black leather vest, zipped to the neck, arms bare. Tight, black pants covered his legs and pelvis. His face was concealed by a gas mask that featured a pair of prominent red eyes. His head was completely bald.

"Who are you," Raven demanded, "and why did you possess my friend?"

"You don't know who I am?" The gas mask gave a filtering effect to his voice--like speaking through a cardboard tube. "I am only the most powerful practitioner of psychokinesis and telepathy in the world!"

He spread his arms out as far as they would go and drew himself to his full height. "I...am Psycho Mantis!" The music suddenly spiked in volume, and the room itself darkened substantially.

Raven was taken aback--that power of speech that she'd prided herself on not five seconds prior was now gone. Speechless, and rooted to her spot, she could only guess just how frightened she must look. Psycho Mantis certainly seemed to find her stance hilarious; he cackled, madly but heartily, at her. "I'm glad you know how to react before me. The other people I've appeared before have been very, very discourteous."

Raven swallowed hard, and forced a cocky smile onto her face. Drawing inspiration from her friends, that she might act out of character, thus making her easier to write for, she decided to play the part of the confident alpha wolf. "Tch, please," she said dismissively. "You may be a tough guy where you come from, but you're talking to the one and only child of Trigon the Terrible. I have power that you can't begin to fathom."

"You doubt me?" Mantis hissed, tensing his body dangerously. The light had almost completely faded from the room, yet Psycho Mantis was fully illuminated. "You doubt MY power?! Very well then! A demonstration, to sweep away any thoughts of resistance you might have held."

He gestured to Raven. "Put your controller down on the floor. Put it down as flat as you can."

Raven blinked, thinking she hadn't heard him right. "My...my what?"

Mantis cocked his head to one side, confused. The music quieted some, and the brightness in the room returned somewhat. "Your...your controller." He pantomimed the action of playing a video game. "You know. What you use to control yourself."

"Uhh..." Raven stifled a chuckle. "I don't need a controller to control myself."

"You...you don't?" Mantis' voice was cracking. The music ceased abruptly, complete with the sound of a record skipping. The room was bright as ever. Raven began to wonder why she was so intimidated in the first place. Black energy surrounded her, causing her cloak to flutter behind her.

"Oh...crap." Mantis coughed, backing away slowly. "H-heh heh, s-so, um...do you like Suikoden?"

* * *

For a few moments, anybody with a good view of the bay, and of Titans' Tower, could glimpse a giant column of black energy smashing its way through the conspicuous, T-shaped skyscraper.

* * *

Beast Boy yawned, stretched, and stood, scratching himself. He was on the floor of the living room--must've dozed off and forgotten about it. He saw Raven, sitting on the couch, reading a book and sipping at tea, surrounded by jagged, broken glass. Looking up, he saw that the front window had been smashed open from the inside.

"Did I miss something?" Beast Boy asked, glancing down at Raven.

"Nope," she replied, sipping her tea.

"Where are the others?" he pressed.

"Elsewhere."

"When will they be back?"

Raven looked at her wrist--a sardonic action; she wore no watch. "Another handful of chapters, I'd say."

"Oh." Beast Boy processed this information for a moment. "Bitchin'." He stuck his hands in his pockets, turned about-face, and wandered off down the hall.

Raven smiled to herself. She finally had her peace and quiet.

* * *

Alternative ideas for the onomotopia for when Raven ko'd Beast Boy include, but are not limited to, "pow," "bam," "mint," "bort," and "whimmy-wham-wham-wazzle." If anyone finds fault in the story, I'm open to criticism.

I'm back, baby.


End file.
